“In writing, Sibelius certainly did not think of creating something new; he simply listened to his irresistible, volcanic inspiration and accepted its direction.”
- Bengt de Torne
I’ve been busy tidying, putting away boxes of ornaments, clearing out the fridge, and chasing Christmas tree needles around the house with a broom. I miss the scent of balsam, but will not miss the stray needles, the last of which I expect to find in about eleven months when we make room for the next tree.
This has always been a productive time of year; maybe there’s something about the dark days’ incremental stretch toward light, or perhaps the busy-ness of work, one thing feeding the next, creatively. I’ve got a few literary irons in the fire, and am reading a fabulous novel, Michael Crummey’s Galore. I’m enjoying Crummey’s delight in the language of the time and place, the Newfoundland folklore and superstition, the light Crummey allows into the darkness. And besides, the whale scene… It’s inspiring.
In fact, during the sweeping of balsam needles I may just have come up with an ending to a short story that’s been eluding me.